Raj
Kapoor, the versatile genius, who was born on 14 December 1924 had become the
youngest director of his time—at the age of 24—with his film, Aag. His performance in Awaara
was ranked as one of the top 10 greatest performances of all time by Time
magazine. It is 29 years ago to 2017 that Raj Kapoor, India’s showman
inimitable, passed away leaving behind a dozen or so films that have traces of
neorealism but infused with his unique dream-like narration … for us to relish
his optimism and be moving into our tomorrows (under their influence ?)…with a
liberal outlook … and of course, with lots of love.
Raj Kapoor, who started his film-career
as a clapper boy at the young age of 11 for Director Kidar Sharma at Bombay
Talkies Ltd., got himself schooled in the aesthetic traditions of theatre and
cinema. Apparently, it is the films of Hollywood directors like Orson Welles (Citizen
Kane, The Magnificent Ambersons), Frank Capra (It’s a Wonderful Life, It
Happened One Night), and the directors from Italian neorealist cinema like
Roberto Rossellini (Roma citta aperta, Paisan) and Vittoria De
Sica of the Bicycle Thieves, Shoeshine and Miracle in Milan
that gave him the right scaffolding—the scaffolding that he filled with his own
humanist ideology, painted it optimistically in his own colors in his own
imaginative way reflecting the very mood of India of those days.
The beauty of his cinemas is: there is a certain allegory of
hope—hope to redesign tomorrows with love as is reflected in that
ever-mesmerizing song aptly penned by his friend Shailendra and sung by the
voice of his soul, Mukesh under the baton of Shankar Jaikishan: kisi ki
muskurahaton pe ho nisaar (to offer oneself to someone for smiles)—behind
his films. Indeed, Raj Kapoor himself once said, “What is it after all that a
man wants? ... The basic thing is tomorrow: the knowledge and promise that
tomorrow will be better than today. Nothing else matters.” And this is what we
experience watching his films, particularly his early films—the very essence of
reality infused into his dreamy narration about the upcoming tomorrows steeped
in ‘pure love’—in almost all of his films and his film’s songs. Indeed, it is
love—pyar dhadakte hai—that beats across the scaffolding of all his
films that depict the life and struggles of a common man.
One is often tempted to wonder if Raj’s films look
‘Capraesque’, for we come across a fine blend of optimism, humor and patriotism
in his films, while darkness, despair and the need to fight for things one
cares about flow as their undercurrent. His heroes undergo real suffering but
laced with humor, which of course, engenders from the hero’s courage. In Shree
420 (The Gentleman Cheat), when the heroine asks the hero as to why he
pretends to be a joker, always fooling around, the hero laughs out saying, “Dil
ka dard aur aankhon ke aansoo chhupaane ke liye ye bewaqoof maskare ka bhes
bade kaam ke cheez hain”—to hide the heart’s pain and flowing tears
from the eyes, the mask of foolishness comes quite handy—and this is what
ultimately offers laughter to the audience. He is a great master of creating
archetypal personalities as in Awaara (1951), Shree 420 (1955), Jis
Desh Men Ganga Behti Hai (1960) to manipulate audience’s feelings and make
their throats choke, eyes well up and even give off for a while their own logic
to identify themselves with the character on the screen.
And Shree 420—that thoroughly fascinating and
entertaining film apart from being socially relevant—stands out as a classic
example of Raj’s narration of populism at its best appeal. His cinematic
imagination well expounds the demonology of populist rhetoric: common people’s
distrust of the urban elite that is considered by them as the “conspiratorial
forces for the evils of society” and the possibility of its rectification
without any fundamental change in the system—all by one’s own redemption. The
plot of Shree 420 is simple, but it is Raj Kapoor’s evocative art of
narration—which tells us that it is possible to live a decent life without
losing oneself and even change the world if only love assumes commanding
role—that makes it so interesting to watch.
The film begins with a jaunty orphan, Raj (Ranbir), the
university educated, coming to Bombay in search of his fortune crooning his
song of the road: Mera juta hai Japani ...—My shoes are Japanese, my red
hat is Russian, but my heart is Indian …. And as it happens, he fails to get a
job. In a pawnshop, he encounters Vidya, a pretty teacher selling her bangles
to meet the school expenses. Dreaming of a happy future family, for a few days
he works in a laundry shop to earn a decent living and of course, to woo the
principled Vidya.
One day,
he meets a high society woman, Maya, who noticing Raju’s knack at playing
tricks with cards, lures him to a fancy soiree where she presents him as a
Rajkumar (Prince) of Pipalinagar. Thus, begins his fall for luxury and easy
money. Becoming a prey to charms greater than himself presented by an
unscrupulous and dishonest businessman, Seth Sonachand and the ravishing Maya,
Raj becomes a trickster. He perhaps considers his ascent to riches as a revenge
against the humiliation that he had suffered. He even wonders: there is nothing
wrong with money, for after all it’s only a means for one to be happy. Perhaps,
haunted by the question, “why should the poor suffer from their poverty and
simultaneously justify their virtuous resignation?” he sees no wrong in his tricking
the rich for money and even argues with Vidya that his position is honest and
morally acceptable—a blend of realistic problem and imaginary solution that
aptly epitomizes middle-class mentality.
But Vidya, who was more sympathetic when he was poor and
lived close to the earth but being hurt when he joined the criminal forces from
the urban elite, standing firm on her principles, attempts to appeal to his
faith in plain, decent everyday common rightness but fails.
Meanwhile, Seth proposes a Ponzi scheme to exploit the poor
by promising them permanent homes. The scheme pays off: the poor lodge their
savings with him. Raj, who has by now become rich, realizes that he has paid a
very high price for becoming rich. Discovering that Seth has no plans to fulfil
his promises to the poor, Raj decides to make the wrong right. Picking up all
the bond papers of people’s homes from Seth’s office, Raj tries to flee. But he
was caught by Seth’s cronies and in that scuffle Seth shoots Raj. He falls down
unconscious.
Hearing the shooting, the poor people rush out to see Raj
nearly dead. Seth tells police that as Raj was fleeing with the stolen money
from his safe he shot him. At it the dead Raj springs back to life and
logically proves the wrongs of Seth. Police then arrest Seth and his cronies.
Vidya forgives Raj and the film ends on a happy note ….
The real beauty of the movie lies in Raj Kapoor executing
this simple plot more artistically. His directorial skill expounds populism—the
amorphous cluster of ideas centred around the opposition of elite and the
common people—quite impressively. A mere look at a couple of episodes from the
movie leaves one appreciative of Raj’s creative ingenuity.
The conspiracy of money and power against the common people
is portrayed in the film quite romantically: as Raj is entertaining his fellow
workers by singing the song—
Dil ka haal
sune dilwala
(O
good-hearted man, listen to what’s in my heart)
Sidhi si
baat na mirch masala
(It’s
pretty straightforward with no melodrama)… /
Aadhi raat
ko mat chillana varna pakad lega police wala
(Don’t
shout in the middle of night else, the police man will catch you to get it
stopped)
that so aptly reflects the socialist outlook of the then
nation, the Seth (merchant) in the adjacent palace feeling disturbed, summons
police to dislodge them.
There is another interesting scene, which incidentally is
pivotal, for it sows the seed—perhaps, by instilling shame —for Raj to revert
to his old self. In one of those days of his romance with the luxury of high
Bombay society, Raj staggers drunk from a night club to Vidya’s house. But
Vidya, with her strong rooting in ethics, having naught to do with Raj such as
he is, turns him down. Hurt by it as Raj staggers back, Vidya watches him
standing like a pillar anguish writ large on her face … perhaps, hoping him to
look back just for once, to take her in his arms, soothe her ruffled feelings
and reassure her, for she is still deeply in love with him.
Now, it is to make this intra-conflict of Vidya evident to
the audience, Raj simply resorts to a song: a ghost-like tormented Vidya comes
out of the rigidly standing mute Vidya and implores at Raj:
O jaanewale
mud ke zara dekhte jaana
(O beloved,
looking back you may go) / … /
fariyad kar
rahi hai khaamosh nigaahe
(although I
remain silent my eyes implore at you…)
As Vidya, the censurer of Raj’s conduct standing still, the
ghost runs between them, perhaps, to woo both and foster a compromise. That is
Raj’s mastery over narration.
There is yet another episode, watching which the audience
are sure to get carried away. One night, seeing Maya and her world of illusion
in the club, and disillusioned by their true nature Raj, finally choosing to
get out of the rut, runs away in horror from the club back to the slums. As he is
walking fast in dejection on the footpath, we hear from a distance a long
‘wail’ (of Rafi’s) that is so full of depth setting the mood brilliantly for
what to follow. His old pals from the slum assembling on the roadside are
happily singing a trite ode to love and loss—Ramayya vastavayya (Ramayya,
will you return?) / Maine dil tujhko diya (I have given you my
heart)—reminding us, and perhaps, Raj as well that poor people can be happy
too. As the chorus girls in native dress merrily dance singing “I have given
my heart to you”, Raj coming closer to them, and standing transfixed in
anguish listens to them.
As the lyrics—
Nainon me
thii pyaar ki roshinii
(In your
eyes was the light of love)
Teri
aankhon me yeh duniyadari na thii
(This
worldliness wasn’t in your eyes then) / ...
Tere mann
mein yeh meethi kataari na thi
(This
sweetened dagger wasn’t in your heart then) / … /
Us desh mei
tere pardes mei
(In that
country, in your foreign land)
Sone chandi
ke badale mei bikate hai dil
(Instead of
gold and silver, they sell hearts)
Is gaoon
mei dard ki chaaonmei
(In this
village, in the shadow of pain)
Pyaar ke
naam par hii dhadakte hai dil
(hearts
beat only in the name of love)
sink in, he, realizing that they apply to him and Vidya, and
perhaps, as the truth—the truth of the promise that he made to his
beloved—stares at him, he gets stirred up. In that rocking, realizing what he
has lost and yearning to come back to his old poor but happy life, twitches his
lips as though wants to utter something. But the camera pans over the street
catching the glimpses of a thelawala, a tanga wala, and then on
to a cyclist who catching the tune and humming the catchy words, Ramayya
vastavayya one after the other, transports the song to Vidya’s porch. And
Lo! the miracle of the music, contagion, happens: picking up the words, “mera
dil tujko diya”, Vidya, sitting in the porch disconsolately, softly
airs the words with teary eyes:
Yaad aati
rahii dil dukhaati rahii
(still
remember you, my heart still grieves)
Apne man ko
manana na aaya hamen
(I do not
know how to conciliate my mind)
Tu na aaye
to kyaa? Bhuul jaaye to kyaa?
(If you do
not come, so what? If you forget, so what?)
Pyaar karke
bhulaana na aaya hamen
(having
fallen in love I do not know how to make myself forget)
wohii se
duur se hii, tuubhi yeh kah de kabhii
(Even from
far away, say this sometime)
Maine dil
tujhko diyaa
(I have
given you my heart).
As Vidya completes airing the words, Maine dil tujhko
diya, the camera seamlessly switches back to the street to capture
the disillusioned Raj joining his old pals with the words on his lips “Maine
dil tujhko diya”, of course, sans the earlier flirtatious banter
that a listener noticed between the male and female voices (of Rafi and Lata)
but in a truly regretful tone (of Mukesh). Jumping in joy at his return,
as the singers invite him into their fold with a hug, Raj, perhaps as testimony
of his redemption, continues to sing soulfully, but with a face
reflecting lots of relief,
Rastaa wohii
aur musaafir wohii
(the path
is the same, the traveler is the same)
Ek taara na
jaane kahaan chhup gayaa
(But I
don’t know where that star has hidden herself)
… koi kyaa jaane kiskaa jahaan lut gayaa
(No one
knows whose world has been destroyed)
… Merii
ankho mein rahe kaun jo mujh se kahe?
(who once
told me to remain forever in their eyes)
Maine dil tujhko diya
(I have
given you my heart).
That
is Raj’s poetic vision: A routine song scene has been used to carry forward his
narration so effectively to its conclusion: if two hearts are in love, and if
they are honest, nothing could separate them. It is through such articulation
of optimism, Raj injects movement, life, energy and vibrancy into his films. It
is through the clashing of ethics and ambition, love and temptation, innocence
and experience that produced humor, pathos and heart-wrenching realism that Raj
proved beyond doubt that it is not dishonesty that could eradicate poverty but
hard work and honesty. Simply put he asserts: man can redeem himself.
In
all this drama, we witness Raj transforming himself from a tramp who is honest
but clad in strange clothing to Prince of Peeplinagar who is suave in his
well-cut clothes, dashingly attractive, devilishly delectable but morally
corrupt with amazing ease. Equally good was Nargis as Vidya: who could forget
that heart-breaking moment that she plays sitting serenely in the veranda of
her house softly singing those poignant lines Yaad aati rahii dil dukhaati
rahii … or her face, particularly, eyes that reflect a mixture of rapture,
of gravity, of subtle presence that is beyond words to describe.
Marvelling
at Nargis of this scene, who can fail to recall that iconic romantic song: Pyar hua
ikraar hua ….that prelude of violins in quick phrases like that of gushing
monsoon winds through woods, suddenly interrupted by a thunder followed by
matching short and sweet sounding mandolin breaks followed by violin phrases in
quick succession with intermittent weighty theka
of dholak setting a fast rhythm….
And there, that incredibly graceful, natural and
beautiful Nargis in pouring rain sharing an umbrella with Raj Kapoor, so close
to each other and yet away … lips quivering … longing to be more nearer to,
perhaps…but shy and reluctant to go any farther, perhaps at the command of the
decency—a marvel of femininity—but succeeds in creating the magical moment of
romancing, while Raj starts wooing her ebulliently
Pyaar hua ikraar huahai
(‘am in
love, I confess it)
Pyar se phir kyoon darr ta hai dil
(Why is
that heart so afraid of love, then?)
As we listen to this apparently
innocent looking question—Pyar se phir kyoon
darrta hai dil—it invariably challenges our wit. True, Pyar is something to be happy about, to be cherished, to feel proud
about, for finding a love interest is in itself a great accomplishment. So,
it’s so natural to wonder: “Why the heck heart is then fearing about it?” but once
the words— Pyar se phir kyoon darr ta hai
dil—sinks in mind, one’s heart perhaps stirs, indeed they rock the heart
with myriad questions: Would it be successful? Would I be able to stand to its
dictates? Would I be able to deliver all that is expected of me under the
relationship? Would the other party reciprocate …? Would I be able to infuse
trust into the relationship? Would I be able to grant allowances for the other
party’s inadequacies? What if it fails?
Those were the myriad questions that
Shailendra’s apparently innocuous lyric Pyar
se phir kyoon darrta hai dil raise… Suffice to say, there are many known
and unknown ‘unknowns’ in that ‘Pyaar hua
ikraar hua hai’-status. Hence the vagueness. And it is that imprecision,
which is perhaps, the root cause of
fear.
And, interestingly when it comes
to the turn of Nargis, she, with her amazing eyes reflecting a mixture of ecstasy,
tenderness and certainty capturing the whole attention of audience,
sings with a face that is quite reflective of the unknown fear, her natural
apprehensions in a more clear terms … indeed, delivers them with exceptional
panache….
Kehata hai dil rasta mushkil
(the way
ahead is difficult, says heart)
Maaloom nahin hai kahan manzil
(not
known where lies the destiny)
Aa, aaaaaa,
aaaaaa, aaaa
See, how categorical Shailendra
is when it comes to the turn of the lady love: he presented her as a better
knower of the ‘unknowns’. Responding to Raj Kapoor’s undefined fear, she comes
forward with a very clear definition of her fear: “Kehata hai dil rasta mushkil / Maaloom nahin hai kahan manzil. This
reminds us of what Sudraka said about women in his play, Mrichchhakatika: “Streeyom hi naam khalveetaa nisargaadev panditaaha /
…“Women as a whole are wise by nature; while wisdom is acquired by men only
by the study of Shastras” (4.18).
And what to say of the depth and beauty of
Shailendra’s lyrics! So simple yet so effective, so pregnant with philosophy! …
Capping it all, what I marvel at is
Lata’s modulation of tone … from a surging flow, she suddenly dropping herself
to slow pace, in fact in a kind of soft-trembling tone, infusing an element of ardrata (warmth) in that tone, she sings the last antara…
Main na rahoongi, tum na rahoge
(I won’t be there, nor
would you be)
Phir bhi rahengi nishaaniyaan
(Yet, there remains
signs of us)
… as Nargis lip-syncs with Lata’s words, it’s
worth watching her face… the warmth, perhaps reflecting her innate longing for
their relation to fructify… she drawing the attention of Raj to the children
walking on the footpath with her forefinger… as though that is how she is
looking forward to their future, the fruits of their morrow’s togetherness…
perhaps! … and how could Raj be indifferent to her pointing finger; he too
slowly turns his face as her finger is turning …indeed as slowly as Lata sang
those words…
Ha! What a visualization of Raj and his
direction…. And that great actress’s expressions! So natural and charming… To
cap it all: that great poet, Shailendra and his sweet and simple lyrics but
rich in thought; singer Lata, Mukesh and the stalwarts: Shankar and Jaikshan! Cumulatively, all this romanticized
populism made his Shree 420 stand out as an all-time classic in the
world of Indian films.
And it is through such translation of the ideological
sentiments into melodramatic cinemas—Awaara, Boot Polish, Jagte Raho, Shri
420, Jis Desh Men Ganga Behti Hai—that Raj remained etched in the minds of Indians,
besides winning the hearts of movie
goers from the Middle East, the Soviet Union and China.
**
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